


Beyond the Reaches of a Long-lost Life

by elvntari



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Bittersweetness, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fourth Age, Gen, Rebirth, Reembodiment in Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 18:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Feanor is reembodied at long last and Elrond attempts to reconcile the image that he has of him in his mind with the image of the man standing before him.





	Beyond the Reaches of a Long-lost Life

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic that I revived! The line about Maglor not being there yet actually isn't my headcanon anymore, but I wanted to pick this one up and finish it since Idril and Nerdanel are two people Elrond probably won't be getting extended interaction with in my current Elrond fic. Enjoy!

There had been a commotion in the house. 

It was nothing Elrond hadn’t grown used to, sitting with Nerdanel in her studio as she sketched out thumbnails onto the fresh parchment he had brought her, telling him childhood stories of his father and uncle. He’d found that the House of Fëanor were excitable—even over the slightest of things. He had once mused that it may be a newfound zest for life, but Nerdanel had quickly shot that down:  _ they were always like that, I don’t know how I survived it. _

He’d laugh and they went about talking and working, paying no heed to the chaos outside. Nerdanel’s studio was a sanctuary, or so she said, it was the only peaceful part of the house. Maybe, Elrond theorised, it was because Nerdanel was the only peaceful  _ person  _ in the house. 

Long years of mourning and anger had steeled her, and grown her patience tenfold—he enjoyed her company more, even than that of his biological grandmother (though he reasoned she was friendly enough). 

But the chaos turned to a heavy hush, and this time there was a knock on the door, and he could tell this was different because Nerdanel took a moment to breathe and gently lay her materials down onto the drafting board before answering.

“Come in.”

At first, Elrond thought the man he was looking at was his father. After all, it would make sense for Nerdanel to seem so serious if her second son had shown up unannounced, and it would make even more sense for her to be able to tell it was him. Besides, the man had sunken into a low bow before he’d the chance to steal a good look at his face, and he certainly shared Maglor’s thick, dark curls. They were even cut shorter in the same fashion of practicality. But something told Elrond that this was not his father.

Then he stood up, and Elrond wondered if he was Curufin, but his wondering answered the question for him. He wasn’t sure if he should look away, but Nerdanel spoke before he could decide: “This is Elrond,” she said, gesturing to him where he sat, mouth agape, “Maglor’s son.” He marvelled at how steady she kept her tone, even when faced with the man that led her children to their doom.

Fëanor bowed again at him, forming a tentative smile as he rose, and holding a hand out. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Elrond.”

Elrond started to reach to take it, but flinched, then cursed himself for flinching.  _ Just shake his damn hand. _ Fëanor didn’t seem to notice or, if he did, he kept it to himself. “Maedhros spoke very highly of you.”

“Maedhros? When did—oh,  _ oh,  _ of course, I’m so sorry.” Somehow he’d assumed that Fëanor wouldn’t have spoken to any of his sons—or that he would’ve been kept separate from them. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he laughed, “when you’ve been dead as long as I have, it stops meaning anything.”

“You missed his wedding.” Nerdanel handed him a small wax carving of the event—it didn’t capture any of the small details—none of the white and gold or the insistence that everything would either be purple or colourless because “ _ even now siding with one house is tricky politically” _ —but somehow, even with only the simple figures, the atmosphere was almost perfectly replicated. 

“He told me he’d wait,” Fëanor said, holding it up to the light to examine, “but I said not to. I don’t think he really wanted me there anyway.” He shrugged and set it down onto one of the multitude of surfaces littered around the room. “Probably for the best. Anyway, I just wanted to stop by, I have some apologies to make.” _ But not to your wife?  _ Elrond thought. 

“Of course.” Nerdanel nodded. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Elrond,” he reached and clasped his hand, “I hope we can talk more.” Then he was gone, and Nerdanel relaxed and sat back down again.

“That was—”

“Fëanor, yes.”

“He seems—”

“Different to how you expected, no?” She smiled at him. “All that propaganda does him little justice—he wasn’t as  _ angry  _ as it makes him seem. Sad, yes. Passionate, absolutely. But not angry. Never angry.”

Elrond found his eyes drawn back to the first sculpture of hers he’d ever seen of Fëanor; standing tall, decked out in full regalia, all the finery a prince and heir should appear in, but his neck bent and head bowed to coo at the tiny baby in his arms, who reached out to grasp the tassels hanging down from his robes. Elrond had been surprised at how—at how  _ nice _ he appeared, and at how peaceful the image was. Initially, he had assumed it was an idealisation, but now… he was far more certain it was the product of one of Nerdanel’s candid sketches. 

The statue had shaken him for another reason, too, because the baby he held was  _ Maglor _ , his own father, whose resemblance to Fëanor, he now realised, was second only to Curufin. 

“Are you angry at him?” Elrond asked.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, “I’m angry at what he did, but I don’t think I could ever really be angry at  _ him _ , for all the good that does me.”

* * *

He found himself almost afraid to return to that house—everything he’d heard about Fëanor had either been from his two bitter sons, or from the Nolofinwean side of the family, which, understandably, wasn’t so favourable to him. The idea was uncomfortable—that Fëanor might not be someone bad at all. He found himself gravitating back toward that other side of the metaphorical tree again, wandering through the home of a man related to him so far back that he might as well be called ‘ancestor’. 

Idril—he still couldn’t bring himself to see her as his grandmother—called out to him.

“Why are you moping around  _ here _ , all of a sudden, hm?” He turned to see her leaning, arms folded against a door frame—she was dressed all in white and gold, the colours she used to wear proudly back in Gondolin, or so they said. Perhaps she had never really been able to let go of the memory of that fallen city.

“No reason,” he lied. “It’s just nice here.”

She made her way over to him. “You told me you hated the high ceilings, Elrond.”

“I don’t remember that—”

“You don’t hold your liquor well,” she shrugged. He could tell she resisted commenting on where he inherited that from. They talked very little about his biological inheritance; he thought she probably had some suspicion that it made him feel guilty. “It’s okay. I heard.”

Of course she had— news travelled like wildfire through that family, sometimes he found himself kept up at night wondering how anyone ever kept anything secret. From the way his father used to talk, he found it clear that he didn’t consider himself a part of it—at least not anymore. He never heard him call himself a Finwëan—apparently, none of the brothers did. 

“It’s weird, right?” She squeezed his arm.

“What?”

“Neither of us ever really knew Fëanor—it’s weird how different he is.”

_ Different.  _ Everyone kept using that word to describe him. He wasn’t sure if they meant different from the stories, or different from the past.

“Weird…” He gave her a quick smile. The way they talked...he often felt as if they were equals, two members of the same generation, instead of a grandmother and a grandson. His wife was from the same generation as her, too, the children of cousins. He was never really sure how he fit into that family. 

“My father still hates him and all his sons, obviously.” She laughed, then paused, expression troubled. “And I should, too.”

“We have that in common,” he said. Idril looked at him quizzically. “Maglor never forgave him.”

“You ever find it ironic that the only living member of your family is the only one that’s missing?” 

“You’re living,” he said, “and Tuor, Eärendil, Elwing, Celebrían.” He counted on his fingers. “The twins are also living  _ and  _ missing.” He felt a pang of sadness. “For all the good that does me.”

Idril squeezed his shoulder. “It’s tough, isn’t it? At least I get to say ‘my son’s a star.’”

He smiled despite himself. “How often do you make that joke?”

“Whenever I can. Tuor loves it. Voronwë tolerates it.”

For a moment Elrond entertained the idea of Eärendil’s childhood, trying to imagine the exact combination of personality traits that could’ve coalesced for him to become the person he was, how each of them were adopted from each of his parents. Elrond realised that he’d probably never spoken to Voronwë. He then realised that he’d spoken to Eärendil maybe twice in his adult life. Twice at the most. 

“I think,” Idril said, filling the space, “that you’re delaying the inevitable. Someday you’re going to have to talk to Fëanor, whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t see why. I’ve never spoken to Dior.”

Idril sighed. “You know it’s not the same.  _ I  _ know it’s not the same. Now, go home—better to get this sort of thing over with.” She smiled as she ushered him out of the house, but when he turned back she was frowning. She looked sad, almost. Regretful. 

* * *

When he returned, Fëanor was absent and Nerdanel sat in the living room with her newest grandson curled up asleep with his head in her lap. “Tea?” She asked, gesturing to the pot set out on the table. Elrond nodded and poured himself out a cup. 

“I have a question.”

“Go on.”

“Why didn’t Fëanor apologise to you.”

She paused mid-sip, then leant over to set her cup down, moving carefully so as not to wake the child. “I told him not to.”

“What?”

“A long time ago, when we were young, when Maedhros was very small—if you can imagine that—” she smiled— “he used to apologise for  _ everything _ . If dinner was a little overdone, if he let Maitimo cry for too long, if he disturbed me while I was working. And he’d apologise for things that weren’t his fault at all. The amount of guilt that he took with him through his life was almost ruinous; it crept into everything that he did. So I told him to stop. I made him swear that he’d never apologise to me for anything.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, that does me little good now that he actually  _ has  _ done me wrong, but even after that he always found his ways. He never said the words ‘I’m sorry,’ but he’d offer to make tea, to take care of menial tasks, just to be a little nicer. He let his actions speak for him. To this day, I still think that’s more clearly genuine than anything else.”

“I never knew that.”

“I only tell people who ask. The only other person who ever has is Indis. It was an awkward discussion, considering.” She laughed. “But she understood. I accidentally trained him never to say it to anyone else, I think, which didn’t do him much good in the end.”

“Will he be back soon? I think I’d like to talk to him.”

“That depends on your definition of soon, but yes, I think he will.” Elrond started to rise, tea untouched. “And, Elrond?” He hesitated. “I’m sure he’d love to talk to you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can decide who Maedhros is marrying yourself but let it be known that I have literally never shipped him with anyone other than Fingon. Please kudos and comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
